


fight so dirty, but your love's so sweet

by Dom1nque



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A suspicious amount of submarine sandwiches, Attempted Kidnapping, Author Is Sleep Deprived, BAMF Jim Gordon, BAMF Reader, BAMF Victor Zsasz, Bisexual Victor Zsasz, Did I mention Victor is bad at flirting?, Enemies to Lovers, Enforcer!Zsasz, Explicit Language, F/M, Flirty Victor Zsasz, Gratuitous Use of 'Fuck', Kidnapping, Light Stalking, Manhandling, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Relationship, Reader is not impressed, The Author Regrets Nothing, Victor Zsasz is bad at flirting, cursing, detective!reader, light spoilers, she just wants to go home
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:06:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29039103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dom1nque/pseuds/Dom1nque
Summary: Being a detective in the brought its own challenge, but (Y/N) took it a step further when she took on the risky responsibility of collecting information straight from the source. Turns out she'd pretty good at it. It didn't take long for it to become a regular thing. (Y/N) now provides Jim Gordon and the GCPD with valuable intel. It didn't affect her life too bad, right up until Gotham's biggest crime lord and his enforcer need everything she knows on Fish Mooney.Or; the story of how (Y/N)'s job brings her to meet the one and only Victor Zsasz.
Relationships: Jim Gordon & Original Female Character(s), Victor Zsasz/Original Female Character(s), Victor Zsasz/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	1. Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 5 Seconds of Summer's song "Teeth".

“Morning, Jim.” (Y/N) climbs the staircase up to the precinct’s platform landing, two bagged foot-long subs in hand. She grabbed them on her way to work, as she apparently lived right next door to the best deli in all of Gotham. That’s according to Harvey. “Hungry?”

Detective Jim Gordon looks up from the report in front of him, consequently one (Y/N) herself had written. It was a briefing on some peculiar street chatter she’d picked up while undercover, regarding Fish Mooney and the Falcone crime family. Thanks to (Y/N)’s skill set when it came to securing information, the GCPD knew something big was about to go down in Gotham’s Underworld. Her work is invaluable and Jim had been the first to see it. That’s why she only gave her reports to Jim Gordon, Captain Essen, or the Commissioner himself. Not that the Commissioner asked for them often. Jim closes the beige folder and takes a bag. “You’re a saint, (Y/N).”

“Don’t mention it. Anything in there you want me to clarify?” asks (Y/N), leaning against the edge of Jim’s desk. Jim is already digging into his sub, and he doesn’t get a chance to answer when Bullock pitches forward and snatches the report right off the desk. 

Bullock slouches back in his chair. “I got questions, kid.”

“Okay...” (Y/N) shifts her body to face the old-timer, bracing herself where Jim and Bullock’s desks meet. “What can I do for you, Harvey?”

“First up, this says you got this from an ‘undisclosed source’. Never stated a name. I dunno about the rest of the precinct, but that’s a little shifty. You sure this is even legal?” It’s an accusation. If (Y/N) weren’t used to this attitude from Bullock, she might be offended. Alas, ever since she started the case on Fish Mooney, Harvey’s been borderline cold. 

“I covered that in last week’s update. My sources are not… totally aware of who they’re talking to, but it’s for their own safety their names are left off the record,” states (Y/N), keeping her tone calm. “Which you’d know if you actually read my work, Harvey.”

Out the corner of her eye, she watches Jim conceal a smirk behind his meatball sub. 

“Watch yourself, the both of you. Little shits…Talking to a senior officer like that...” Bullock grumbles, but it’s all in good nature, (Y/N) can tell. She takes the report from him, pressing the sandwich bag into Bullock’s space. He accepts, tips an imaginary hat, and hooks right in. The rate he practically inhales it is both impressive and frightening.

“Careful, Harv. God forbid she find out you don’t actually hate her,” teases Jim, a cheeky grin on his face. Bullock argues with him between biting off and chewing chunks of sandwich, and (Y/N) leaves them to it when she’s called into Captain Essen’s office. She discusses with the Captain regarding an anonymous tip about a possible Mooney employee hangout. It would be a good place for her to check out, seeming viable enough. But… she couldn’t help but notice the precinct just outside the door had gone quiet. Too quiet. A part of (Y/N) tuned out of what Essen was telling her. 

“... _only her. Everybody else, mind your business and we’re cool_...” The voice is distorted and difficult to hear through the office wall, but the only one in the entire building as of now.

Essen must have found it strange too. They halt their conversation, waiting.

“ _Hey, (Y/N)_ !” Whoever the hell it is, they’re yelling now. In a precinct full of officers who are doing nothing to stop them. And they specifically want (Y/N)’s attention. She glances at Essen, who looks just as lost as she feels. “ _(Y/N)_ ~”

(Y/N) tosses the papers she’d been flicking through on Essen’s desktop and heads out the door, with Essen on her tail. It wasn’t a soundproofing problem: each and every cop in the room had gone silent. (Y/N) lets her gaze shift from the surrounding officers to Jim, finally landing on the pale, bald guy dressed in all black. He stands on the receptionist’s desk, and his own focus zeroes in on _her._

“Hi, (Y/N).” The stranger gives a little wave as (Y/N) circles Bullock’s desk, meeting the top of the balcony arch’s crescent to stand beside Jim. She knows this man, has seen him in a file once, his name is on the tip of her tongue- 

“ _Relax_ . I’m supposed to take you in alive. Don Falcone wants to talk.” The singsongy, purring tone makes (Y/N)’s stomach churn, just the way it borders on threatening but isn’t quite there. Like he could be talking to a good friend. Not to mention what he just said about Don _freaking_ Falcone. The King of Gotham’s Underworld wants to ‘talk’?

“What if I don’t want to talk?” (Y/N) asks, somehow managing a steady voice. 

“Oh, don’t-” starts the intruder, clenching his hands into fists before simultaneously releasing them and the irritation, “be that way! You know, alive is a very broad category. Gives me a lot of range. Someone with no fingers...” He waggles his own, “...can still be alive.”

Jim cuts in, holding his ground, and he’s deadly calm. “There are fifty cops in here. Try something.”

“Everybody, out.” The intruder straightens up, his laid-back expression dropping from his face. If looks could kill, Jim would be six feet under. GCPD officers look around at one another, occasionally at (Y/N) or Jim. The thing is, they seem to be _considering it_. (Y/N)’s gut clenches when the intruder barks at them. “NOW?!”

And (Y/N) felt sick when they did as they were told. Filing out the sides and the back, one after the other, all of them. The only ones who stayed aside from (Y/N) were Essen, Bullock, and Jim.

(Y/N) swallows down the lump in her throat. She can’t let the people she cares about, the only ones truly loyal, be hurt because of her. “The rest of you, too.”

“(Y/N)-” starts Essen. 

“Please,” says (Y/N). “Please, just go.”

After a painfully prolonged moment, Bullock takes Essen’s arm and guides the Captain towards an exit. (Y/N) can’t bear to look back now, but she hears the sincerity in his voice when he speaks. “I’m sorry, kid.”

“Jim...” Her knuckles going white on the balcony railing, a million half-finished plans race through her mind as she tries to figure out what she’ll do once - _if_ , because Jim Gordon is possibly one of the most stubborn people she knows - (Y/N) gets Jim to safety. 

“You heard the lady, Jimbo. Out you go.” The pale man makes a dismissing waving gesture in their direction. He’s mocking, (Y/N) thinks, he’s enjoying this. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Zsasz. Carmine Falcone doesn’t scare me,” says Jim, practically announcing the fact. (Y/N) feels the need to make him shut up, to make him stop provoking the Falcone-hired gunman. Just because this guy needed (Y/N) alive didn’t mean Jim had to be. Where would Gotham be without its most genuine cop? “, and neither do you.”

(Y/N) grips his arm, panic rising in her chest. “Sir, please, I’m begging you-”

“When this goes down, take the stairwell behind the M.E.'s office. You know the one. It’ll lead you to the underground parking lot. I’ll buy you whatever time I can,” hisses Jim into her ear. His words register with her, and (Y/N)’s heart drops.

“ _What_? Absolutely not- Jim, they’ll kill you!” 

“I’ve survived worse than the likes of him, (Y/N).”

 _Stubborn prick_ . (Y/N)’s hand tightens on the sleeve of Jim’s suit. “It’ll be three on one. God knows you’ve defied the odds before, but this is _insane_! I won’t have your blood on my hands. You need to let me handle this, sir.”

“Victor Zsasz has a reputation for staying on target. He’s only after you,” murmurs Jim, voice so controlled despite the situation at hand. 

The intruder - Victor Zsasz, apparently - has grown tired of the holdup. His face pinches into an expression of exasperated patience. “If you could refrain from the whispering, officers. It’s _impolite._ ”

“Jim,” tries (Y/N) weakly.

“That’s an order from your superior officer.” And just like that, Jim turns his attention from her and onto Zsasz. There’s no arguing with Jim Gordon when he has his mind set on something. Guess that’s the end of that. It’s subtle, but (Y/N) catches Jim inching towards his gun holster.

“What now, Jim?” asks Zsasz, menacingly low, watching the two of them carefully. It’s then that Jim pulls his police-issued weapon free and lets off one shot after the other in Zsasz’s direction. Zsasz flips backward off the desk. 

(Y/N) tears her own gun from its belt holster and provides herself with brief cover, shooting at the black-clad girls on Zsasz’s side. She descends down the balcony staircase as Jim keeps the girls pinned, heaving herself up and over the railing. Landing clean on the other side, the M.E. area is right through the door. One glance back at Jim and (Y/N) can see he’s being pushed back into the Captain’s office by Zsasz’s relentless attack. All she hears is gunfire. But (Y/N) knows all she can do to help them is _lead them away_. 

So with one more shot at a henchwoman, (Y/N) lets herself into the M.E.'s office and slams the door shut behind her. 

Holstering her gun, (Y/N) moves to press her back against the filing cabinet beside the door frame. She shoves her full body weight back and topples it over so it blocks the entrance. A henchwoman’s face is in view through the window. She tries and fails to shove the door open, so she brings her gun up to it. A bullet shatters the glass, and (Y/N) locks her arms around her head. Fumbling with the staircase entrance door, gunshots and her heartbeat in her ear, (Y/N) manages to get it open and slip through. 

Not before she catches a bullet in the arm. 

Pain splits and splinters through her nerves. Slick blood coats her fingers where she clasps a firm grip on the wound. (Y/N) grits her teeth to bite back the cry of pain building up in her throat, panting out breaths with her eyes squeezed shut. She slumps against the wall, trying to get her emotions in line. (Y/N) hears the bang of a body colliding with a solid surface. _Shit, shit, shit_ \- 

She forces herself upright and down the winding staircase.

When she reaches the parking garage, her wounded arm is throbbing, she’s breathless and (Y/N) is lost for what to do. But there isn’t a second to waste; she can hear boots echoing from the stairwell. She moves to dip behind a reinforced prisoner transport truck, pressing herself flat against the back doors. Her blood smudges across its paint job.

In the reflection of the police cruiser in front of her, (Y/N) watches as Zsasz leads his two henchwomen to the landing of the staircase leading to the parking lot. They stand there for a moment, all armed, and overlook the scene in their sights. Scanning it carefully before Zsasz advances with the women close behind. They split off in three different directions. 

(Y/N)’s breath catches in her throat as she drops into a crouch. A henchwoman heading right for her, getting too close. In a split-second decision, (Y/N) snatches up a chunk of concrete and throws it, where it skids across the garage floor. 

It’s loud, it’s attention-grabbing, and it has the henchwoman moving to investigate.

Holding her breath, (Y/N) picks herself up. She keeps as close to the floor as possible, still cradling her forearm, and maneuvers around the back of another cruiser. The position is too uncomfortable, too hard to hold, so (Y/N) slumps down onto the pavement. 

“(Y/N)~” comes Zsasz’s singsongy call, followed by a low whistle that sends spikes of panic down her spine. Her heart surges. It’s too close. His footsteps are too close.

She dares to sneak a peek under the car, between the front and back wheels. The sight of Zsasz’s leather shoe stepping into view sends her heart pushing into her throat. Or maybe it’s just panic. Regardless, (Y/N) half drags/half carries herself around to the opposite side of the car Zsasz is on. All that stands between them now is that cruiser.

But the footsteps have stopped, completely. 

(Y/N) tilts her head, pushing herself up enough to get a look at Zsasz’s face through the cruiser’s passenger window. He’s seen something of interest to him. When (Y/N) follows along his line of sight, she mentally curses her existence.

Zsasz had spotted the transport truck she’d originally hidden behind, where (Y/N) had left a bloody smear of a handprint. 

Glancing down and to her side, (Y/N) has only now just realised she has been leaving a trail of her own blood for Zsasz to follow. She really shouldn’t be surprised, considering the fact her hand is drenched in it. 

“Ouch.” Zsasz chuckles, outwardly speaking now. “That hurting, (Y/N)?”

 _Shit, shit, shit_ . Before she drops back down to ground level, (Y/N) sees Zsasz gesture to the henchwoman she’d just evaded. Ordering the girl to close in on the mark. She is _so_ screwed. (Y/N) draws her gun with her good hand, counting to three and back in an attempt to keep a level head. Watching, waiting, a half-finished plan surfacing in her mind. 

“Why are you hiding, (Y/N)? You can’t run from me.”

As soon as the woman came into sight, (Y/N) knew she’d been spotted. Her eyes widen with cold recognition and she raises her gun. But (Y/N) is quicker and fires. To her short-lived relief, two out of four hits the attacker and she crumbles. With the knowledge Zsasz is _right there_ in mind, (Y/N) leaps to her feet and skirts around the cruiser. She keeps low, bullets flying over her head as she weaves through. 

She can see daylight, can see and hear Gotham City streets beyond the parking lot. Her chance to escape. Clutching her arm, (Y/N) makes a break for it.

It’s like time itself slows down around her. 

The other henchwoman yells something and for a moment, no guns. No resistance, just (Y/N) and a short stretch to safety. But just as she makes it to the street curb, pain bursts up her calf. Microseconds later, a gunshot rings out. Her leg spazzes out and (Y/N) can’t keep herself up. She collides harshly with the pavement. 

Groaning, (Y/N) rolls onto her back. Zsasz has his arm outstretched with his silver gun in hand. He and his remaining henchwoman are approaching when-

Tires squeal as a black Chevrolet skids down the garage entrance, pulling up in the space between (Y/N) and Zsasz. The driver’s side door is thrown open. 

“Get in!” Oswald Copplepot, practically screeching at her, drags an AK47 from inside and positions it on the rolled-down window. From where (Y/N) is sprawled, a smug satisfaction rises in her gut as Zsasz and the henchwoman dive behind GCPD cars. He lets loose, gritting his teeth as his bullets fly. The noise is deafening. He has Zsasz pinned, (Y/N) sees her chance and tugs the Chevrolet open. Her whole body aches in protest, but she climbs into the car's backseat with a bitten-back groan. 

From where she lies, Oswald temporarily halts his attack to glance back at her. He then jumps back into the vehicle and kicks it into gear. They take off. 

Zsasz and his remaining henchwoman are standing again, firing off rounds as the car turns the corner and is out of sight. (Y/N) watches through the rear window right up until then before forcing herself upright in her seat. Her breathing and heart rate slows, and (Y/N) can hear herself think again. 

And the first thing she thinks is, _where the hell are we going?_

"Oswald?" asks (Y/N) carefully, in as much as a controlled tone as she can manage. She has met Oswald 'Penguin' Cobblepot twice before, but only ever with Jim. She knew the man was unpredictable at best.

"Yes?"

"Where are you taking me?"

Oswald chuckles, almost nervously. "Oh, Miss Mooney's. She heard about your little soon-to-be predicament with the Zsasz fellow. I figured I'd do her and my dear friend Jim a favour at the same time. Two birds," he glances at (Y/N) through the rearview mirror, "one stone."

"You're taking me to Fish's place?" (Y/N) repeats numbly. She feels lightheaded, but she knew for a fact that going to Mooney's would not end well for (Y/N). 

"Mm-hm. Don't worry, detective, we'll make it before you pass out," says Oswald. 

(Y/N) shakes her head. "No…"

"Excuse me?"

"You're not taking me to Fish's. I want the hospital." 

"I assure you Miss Mooney has plentiful medical staff on hand. We'll have you fixed right up when we get there,” goes on Oswald, even though his hands visibly tighten on the steering wheel. 

"Take me to the hospital, Oswald." (Y/N) keeps a flat tone. Threatening. It's not a request, but a demand. "Right. Now."

"I _can't_. You don't understand what Fish does to people that disobey her."

(Y/N) reaches for her belt, for her gun. She doesn't want to, but she's proven she's ready to do just about anything to avoid Gotham's Underworld bosses."I know how she works. I also know what she does to people who threaten the security of her mob plans. She knows Falcone wants to talk to me. I've survived too much today to die by her hand!"

"Detective, please..." starts Oswald, but (Y/N) pulls her gun on him and presses the muzzle to his exposed neck. 

He instantly stiffens. "All right, let's not be hasty-"

"I'm not screwing with you, Oswald!" barks (Y/N), "Take me to Gotham General or I'll shoot you right here and drive there myself. Tell Fish I forced you, whatever, just _take me to the goddamn hospital_."

And Oswald changes course immediately. (Y/N) recognises the twists and turns necessary for getting to Gotham General. After about five minutes of silence, (Y/N) takes Oswald's cell phone. Jim's number is already saved on it. 

She dials the number.


	2. Close Call

_ Anne Beau-Montgomery. _

That's the alias she'd come up with upon arrival when admitting herself into Gotham General hospital. 

It's been three long, long days since Zsasz's attack on the GCPD. Since her would-be abduction. She'd been bed-bound from the moment she arrived, and her injuries were healing nicely. One to the leg, one to the arm, along with bumps and bruises from her dodgy escape. When Jim and Bullock came to visit, (Y/N) could walk again. 

So now she and Jim wander one of the hospital's stretching hallways as she recites the information she suspected Falcone wanted. She'd just been circling one of Gotham's more seedy bars when she'd overheard it; the piece of street talk that connected the dots between all the shit (Y/N) had listened in on for weeks.

Fish was planning something big. Something that would literally change the hierarchy of Gotham's underworld if it were carried out. Long story short, Fish wanted Falcone out. Had been preparing to make good on that for a while now. Had the means to reach it, too. And (Y/N) knew exactly how she planned to achieve it. Everything begins and ends with a club singer named Liza.

It's now clear to (Y/N) how much of the GCPD would do somersaults for Falcone, so (Y/N) isn't surprised the Don heard about the intel she had. 

"So she's been running circles around him from the start?" asks Jim.

"That's what I gathered. Played him like a damn flute. Unfortunately," says (Y/N), taking a mouthful of luke-warm vending machine soda, "my reputation precedes me. I'm almost certain I know what I'm talking about."

"I believe you, I do. It's just…" Jim drags a hand down his face. "... there's nothing we can do. Half our cops are dirty, Falcone has always been untouchable anyway, and we've never been able to get anything solid on Mooney. We can't interfere."

Even though (Y/N) knows this, her heart sinks. Her life is being threatened for useless information. "I assumed as much."

"I'm sorry, (Y/N)," says Jim.

"Don't be." (Y/N) tosses her now-empty can into the nearby trash. It's exhausting, thinking like this. "It’s not your fault, anyway. I knew what I was getting myself into. Part of the job. I just don't know what to do from here."

"I'd offer you GCPD protective custody, but, well…" he trails off, shaking his head.

"No, thank you," (Y/N) says, huffing out a heavy laugh. They turn a corner, on a beeline back to Anne Beau-Montgomery's room-

(Y/N)'s heart leaps into her throat. Why? Because someone is just leaving her alias' hospital room, and that someone is none other than Victor Zsasz in the flesh. Armed with a sleek handgun. 

A sleek handgun he swiftly turns to lock on  _ her. _

"Miss me, (Y/N)?" 

Jim reacts instantly, stepping in front of (Y/N) with his own gun drawn. Neither of them is backing down.

With a gritted, somewhat friendly smile, Zsasz only looks at (Y/N). Watching her, as if he can see straight into the seizing fear in her soul. Like Jim was non-existent in the moment. "We really don't have to do this the hard way, guys. All (Y/N) has to do is cooperate and come with me, and no one gets hurt."

As someone sporting - not one, but two - gunshot wounds and had only just been cleared for independent movement, (Y/N) is nothing short of petrified. 

But then, out of nowhere, the surrounding civilians spin to face Zsasz. All in almost perfect unison and all armed with guns.  _ Police-issued guns _ , (Y/N) realises, struck by awe.  _ Oh my god. _

Leading them is Captain Essen. 

(Y/N) could laugh, she's so relieved. Her would-be abductor is held at gunpoint by GCPD officers. Easily outnumbered.

"Oh, come on, guys! I thought we had an understanding." No one budges. The circle around Zsasz stays tight, unmoving. (Y/N) can't help but hold her breath. Zsasz sighs. Rolling his shoulders, he drops his weapon with a clatter and raises his hands up in surrender. A pair of officers move in to arrest him.

"Take him back to the precinct," says Essen. "A conversation is long overdue."

The unis do as they're told, leading Zsasz out with his hands cuffed behind his back, but he calls over his shoulder. "You're just delaying the inevitable, (Y/N). I always finish the job!"

(Y/N) watches until he’s out of sight, then turns to Jim. "I want to go."

"Excuse me?"

"I want to be there. When they interrogate Zsasz, I want to be there." (Y/N) crosses her arms over her chest, a determined look on her face despite the sting from her wounds. Her pain meds were wearing off.

"No," says Jim in a heartbeat. "Absolutely not. No way."

"Look, I don't have to stay for the whole thing. He doesn't even have to know I'm there. Just let me listen in? Please?"

"No. You were shot just over seventy-two hours ago, (Y/N).  _ Twice.  _ Only just got off bedrest."

"Yeah, because of  _ that  _ man," says (Y/N), nodding to the direction Zsasz was hauled off in. "I want to know why Falcone's so invested in talking to me, and that guy is the key. I've earned that much."

"But you already know why."

She shook her head. "I said I'm almost sure. I like to be certain."

"Okay. Okay, fine," Jim says, dropping his hand from his face after a moment. (Y/N) can't hold back her grin. "You get ten minutes. Ten minutes, no more, then I take you home and you  _ rest _ . Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal. Thank you, Jim," says (Y/N), giving his forearm a squeeze before taking her leave back to her alias' room. All she had with her at the hospital was a duffle of clothes, so she slings its strap over her shoulder - she'd change properly in the car - and snatched up the clipboard at the end of the bed. On her way to meet Jim, she scrawls a signature on the paperwork. As of that moment, Anne Beau-Montgomery was discharged from Gotham General.

She drops the clipboard off at reception. A nurse tries to call her back, but (Y/N) kept her pace. The drive to the precinct was relatively quiet, with (Y/N) changing into comfortable civvies and a short mental debate on whether or not to pop another pain med. She decides to hold out for a few hours. It doesn't take much longer for them to arrive at the GCPD. 

Zsasz is already in the interrogation room, handcuffed to the table, when (Y/N) and Jim join Bullock in the observation partition. Captain Essen herself stands opposite Zsasz, and she looks  _ pissed _ .

"For the last time, jackass. What does Carmine Falcone want with (Y/F/N)?!" 

"Why don't you ask her? I'm sure she's around here somewhere. Watching this right now, perhaps?" Zsasz's gaze lands on the mirror the detectives stand behind, and (Y/N) has to remind herself about the one-sided window. It  _ still _ feels as though he can see her. "Say, how about you get her in here? We're practically buddies. I might be more open for conversation."

(Y/N)'s heart lurches. Essen scoffs. "Keep dreaming, Zsasz."

"I'm being serious here, capi-tan. If I wanted (Y/N) dead, she would be. She'd never know what hit her. But all Don Falcone wants," says Zsasz, pausing, "is a chat. I was just kidding about the fingers thing, honest!"

"What part of 'you're never going to lay a hand on her' can't you understand? Do I need to spell it out for you?" growls Essen, leaning over the table and into Zsasz's space. 

He doesn't even look fazed. "What can I say? I'm a determined guy. That's why the Don trusts me to handle his dirty work. He knows that I'll, eventually, bring down whoever I need to in order to finish a job."

It's a threat, despite its playful delivery, and everybody watching knows it.

" _ Bite me. _ "

"Only if you ask nicely," Zsasz says with a smirk and a matching wink. Essen scowls. "Anywho, this is all pointless. Whether you like it or not, I'll walk soon. Falcone has all types of pull around this place. I've proven as much. Besides, I don't exactly need to be present for a mark to be brought in. I have my Girls for a reason."

"You son of a bitch," snaps Essen. 

Zsasz chuckles, leaning back in his chair as far as the cuffs will allow. His gaze falls on the one-sided mirror again. "(Y/N), if you're watching, there's no point in running from me. You know it, I know it, Jimbo knows it… But by all means, keep up the chase, little detective. Adds to the fun."

And (Y/N) physically takes a step back, feeling sick to her stomach. 

"Looks like her lunch is gonna make a reappearance," says Bullock lightly in what seemed to be an attempt to ease tension. He claps Jim on the back. “Probably best to take her home, Jimbo."

"You took the words right out of my mouth, Harv. I said ten minutes," Jim tells (Y/N) pointedly. 

She lifts her hands up with a half-hearted shrug. "A deal's a deal, I guess. Home sounds pretty good right about now. And Chinese takeout."

"And maybe enough meds to knock out a horse," adds Bullock. He nods to her bandaged arm. "That looks nasty, kid."

Rolling the sore shoulder, (Y/N) bites her lip through the buzz. "It's not as bad as it looks. Food and rest will do the trick, then I'll be back on my feet before you can miss me too much, old-timer."

"Christ, you sound like Jimbo. Don't start taking after him, will you?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if Zsasz knows where you live," says Jim offhandedly, but serious nonetheless. So suddenly, it was like he got broken out of a trance. 

Bullock groans. "Ugh, you're right."

"Then what do you suggest?" (Y/N) asks.

In the end, after a short discussion, the three of them decide Jim's apartment is the best place for (Y/N) to hide out. With its location in Gotham's quieter region and how the apartment is just one of dozens in the building, it's more than ideal. And Jim's not opposed to the plan. (Y/N) is just relieved he's willing to let her crash for a night or two; she doesn't want to be alone.

She bids goodbye to Bullock, actively forcing herself not to glance at the scene unfolding inside, and (Y/N) led the way out to Jim's car. Officers give side-looks, and she has to stop herself from glaring. Some of them are still traitors. 

Fidgeting with the strap of her bag, (Y/N) stares out the passenger window the whole trip, city buildings street lights flying by. Her mind reels, automatically building up schemes for what she'd do next. Contingency plans for the worst-case scenario, escape routes, recalling how much a train ticket taking her the hell out of here costs-

She forces it aside. It's stupid to think of such things. She'll just drive herself mad.

"Nice place you got," (Y/N) remarks once Jim lets them in and switches the lights on. It's obviously an apartment for one, a little run down and dusty, but nice for Gotham. Probably not as nice as Jim’s used to, ever since living with his trust fund baby ex-fiancée. (Y/N) has seen what the woman wears on a daily basis, and can easily imagine what her home looks like.

Jim chuckles humourlessly. "Sure."

"I'm serious!" Her light tone told a different story, just teasing. (Y/N) knew about Jim and his fiancee's break up. Apparently, he'd been living the life before that little spat happened. "No, really! Dirt and grime is a very attractive feature."

"Just make yourself at home. I'm gonna make up the couch for-" He cut himself off when his phone's ringtone went off. 

(Y/N) gives him a confused look, to which he checks the ID. He shoots an apologetic look. Making a gesture to say 'go ahead', (Y/N) drops down on Jim's couch as he disappears into his bedroom. After a moment, he reemerges with worry etched into his face. 

"That was Essen," he says quickly, an attempt to mask his panic without much success. "Zsasz's henchwomen are attacking the GCPD. It's chaos down there." He rushes around the house, scrambling to grab the keys, his discarded gun, and his jacket among other things. "I have to go. Will you be okay here alone?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. Good luck-!" But Jim's already out the door, slamming it shut behind him. 

Just like that, (Y/N) is alone again. She sighs. 

Ten, twenty minutes pass, and (Y/N) soon finds herself to be very bored. She lounges back on Jim's sofa, poorly attempting to take her mind off the dull ache of her wounds with work, before she gets up to find paper and a pen.

(Y/N) begins to jot down short lines of intel she hadn't had the chance to tell Jim yet on a notepad page. Just in case… well, you know. 

A clatter from the kitchen makes (Y/N)'s head snap up. The unmistakable sound of the window being pushed shut sends her heart racing as she gets up. She folds the page into a small square and tucks it between the couch cushions.  _ Someone's here _ .

She takes her GCPD-issued gun - which (Y/N) had snuck in amongst her clothes - and advances with it drawn. Slowly, one foot in front of the other, completely alert with her finger ghosting the trigger. 

Just as she passes the blocky refrigerator, the mystery intruder strikes too quick for her to react. 

_ Shit, dammit!  _ She forgot to turn safety off! The gun falls from her grip and skids across the tile floor, out of reach. Next thing (Y/N) knows, she's trapped between a solid body and the kitchen wall with her hands securely pinned behind her back. A mouth is at her ear. 

"We've just got to stop meeting like this, (Y/N)." The voice is familiar and makes a chill run down her spine. "I mean, I won't complain about the position… It just usually leads to something else, is all." 

Victor Zsasz chuckles to himself, his voice and his breath too close for comfort. 

All (Y/N) has in her to do is curse her very existence. "Fuck."


	3. Abduction

"Fuck."

"Whoa there, watch your language, little detective!" Zsasz scolds, playful. He frees a zip tie from his jacket pocket. "Fair is fair, don't you think? Hey, you had a good run. But let's be honest," he draws her wrists together, draws the tie tight, "it was unavoidable. You just got lucky."

" _ Fuck you _ ," she snarls, cheek still pressed into the wall. 

And Zsasz just tuts, as if she were a misbehaving child. She wants to slap the shit out of him. "Aw, don't be like that! Nobody likes a sore loser, (Y/N)."

"This isn't a game, Zsasz," she hisses, pulling uselessly at her bindings, "this is my  _ life _ ."

Zsasz groans, the show of it rather exaggerated. He's not taking this seriously. At all. "How many times do I have to say that  _ I am not going to kill you _ ?"

"Maybe you won't, but Falcone might. He wants to talk, and he's not gonna like what I have to say."

"Oh, you don't know that," says Zsasz, and (Y/N) doesn't miss how Zsasz keeps one hand on her wrists, brushing his fingers against the skin there. "You know, the guy's actually pretty good company. Very wise, lots of stories. You might learn a thing or two."

"Except he wants to learn from  _ me _ ," (Y/N) retorts. Zsasz's face is right there. She goes to slam her head back into his, but Zsasz moves out of the way just in time. 

"Ooh, feisty." The bastard gives a low wolf whistle. "It's doing things for me."

"Anyone ever told you how punchable you are, Zsasz?" 

He hums in mock consideration. "No, not as much as you might think. Come on, let's get going. Falcone's expecting you."

"Ugh," is (Y/N)'s  very intelligent response as Zsasz removes his weight from her body and she can stand again. Zsasz takes a hold of her shoulder - the one attached to her uninjured arm, thank God - and guides her into Jim's lounge room.

"Okay, so I gotta ask," pipes up Zsasz, stopping them by the coffee table, "why are you even trying so hard to evade this? Y'know, the whole tedious, drawn-out chase was  _ so  _ unnecessary."

"Well, that's absolutely none of your business, so…" she says, flexing her sore arm best she could with it restrained. The ache in her forearm and calf is getting harder and harder to ignore. She needs her meds.

It's just, his whole job would've been over by now if you came with me when we first met.  _ And _ you wouldn't have gotten shot, which I can tell is starting to bother you, by the way."

(Y/N) huffs in annoyance. 

"Oh, don't tell me you're afraid of Boss Lady Fish coming after you?"

"Pff, as if!" (Y/N) retorts, turning to face Zsasz. He doesn't try to stop her. "She's intimidating, but not that intimidating. Hey, consider this. Maybe I just don't want to help Gotham's largest crime family!"

"Wait, seriously?"

The backs of her thighs rest against the couch armrest. Even though she felt small when looking up at Zsasz, she kept a straight face. "Seriously. The last thing that man needs is more power, and I'll be damned if I'm the reason he gets it. Maybe a change of Underbelly management is what this city needs."

"I don't think you quite understand what he does for Gotham," Zsasz tells her.

"I know my department turned on me for him," says (Y/N), "I know the mayor is corrupted by him, and I have a pretty good idea of how much blood is on his hands. I understand  _ plenty _ , Zsasz."

Zsasz just claps his hands. "Alrighty, then. Believe what you want. But I won't have any more stalling, little detective. Places to be, people to see."

And (Y/N)... well, (Y/N) panicked. 

"Wait-!" (Y/N) blurts out. His attention snaps back to her, and (Y/N) feels too overwhelmed by it all of a sudden. "I-uh- I need my meds. Pain meds."

Zsasz frowns. "Why?"

"Um, because I got shot. Twice. By you."

"Right, of course, okay. Uh," Zsasz throws a glance around the room, "where did you put them?"

"Bathroom. Jim's bathroom." Her mind is racing a million miles an hour at this point. So she's bought herself time, a window of opportunity. Even if it's small, it's there.

"Okay, hang on…" and just like that, Zsasz is out of sight.

She jumps to her feet, making a beeline for the front door. It's simply her luck, she thinks to herself in frustration, that the stupid thing is locked. 

_ Stupid self-locking doors. _ (Y/N) changes course, scouring the closest surfaces for the keys. She comes up with nothing, the leg and bound hands are slowing her down, her window closes by the second. (Y/N)'s movements are so quiet, she can hear Zsasz rifling through Jim's stuff looking for meds that don't exist.

Then she finds what just has to be the keys on top of the fridge. Her heart is somersaulting against her ribcage at this point. She rushes to the door again, fits a key into the lock-

A hand latches onto her arm, right over a bandage. She drops the keys. Pain hits so hard that the room spins for a moment, and (Y/N) curls in on the offender. Once close, she sends an open-hand strike to the jaw. There's a pained hiss, then their leg twists around hers, and the both of them go tumbling to the floor.

Air is forced from her lungs when her attacker lands on top. Her wounds throb like a heartbeat, and she grits her teeth so hard they grind uncomfortably. 

"Get off me-" (Y/N) manages to growl through labored breaths, shoving weakly at the body on hers. It gives, and (Y/N) rolls into her side and curls in on herself. Her breathing is shaky, and her voice is a strained whisper,"... _ shit _ …"

Zsasz's unnerved voice cuts through her pained haze like a knife. "Crap, you're not faking it-"

"Of course  _ not _ !" snarls (Y/N), strained.

"You tried to leave. Again! Don't blame me for reacting to your dumbass decision," Zsasz grumbles. "Can't you tell I'm trying to be gentle here?" 

The pain lessens a little, (Y/N) sits up. "Try harder."

"Maybe when you make an attempt to cooperate, little detective," says Zsasz, and her head snaps towards him. There's hot anger behind (E/C) eyes.

"Would you stop calling me that?!"

"If you say so...little detective." And when (Y/N)'s glare and frown deepen, Zsasz just throws his hands up in a dramatic show of surrender and laughs heartily. Her scorn doesn't relax. "Kidding! Where are your meds, for real this time?"

(Y/N) bites back the pressing desire to grumble. Instead, she nods to Jim's worn old couch. "In my bag."

"So you did lie to me. I thought we had this whole-ass agreement going on, (Y/N). I'm  _ hurt _ ."

"I didn't agree to anything, Zsasz," she says, fighting to sound as furious as she felt rather than the pinched tone she could hear in her own voice. "Still haven't. Can I get the stupid meds now?"

Zsasz does get up, and he does paw around in her duffle for a moment or two. Suspiciously long, but (Y/N) is too sore to screw up her chance to get the drugs back in her system. Then the apartment fills with the tell tale, wake-the-dead-level noise of a bag zipper being dragged shut. Zsasz spins on his boot heel to face her, a grin on his face and an orange prescription bottle in his hand. The precious contents rattle away inside. 

"We're gonna make a deal now. Hey, don't give me that look-" Zsasz frowns at (Y/N)'s frustration, clearly exaggerating his emotions again, before his smile returns. "I'll give you these, as many as your little detective heart desires-" (Y/N) scowls, but Zsasz ignores her "- if you get in my car without a fight."

She opens her mouth to object, but Zsasz shushes her. 

"This is a fantastic once-in-a-kidnapping deal, (Y/N). You get the shotgun seat  _ and _ your pills. Sounds pretty good to me, am I right?" Zsasz asks, clearly rhetorical, so (Y/N) keeps her mouth shut. "Alternatively, you get no drugs, I wrap you up like tuna sushi and throw you in the trunk. What's it gonna be?"

Obviously, (Y/N) ends up choosing the former. 

Five minutes later, she'd taken a pair of painkiller pills and climbed into the passenger seat of Zsasz's car, trying to work out the most comfortable position with her hands tied behind her back. Zsasz gets in beside her.

"Alright!" Zsasz rubs his hands together, throwing a lopsided grin at (Y/N). "Next stop, lunch!"

(Y/N) halts her fidgeting. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, little detective. I know you've gotta be hungry for some real food after only gettin' that hospital stuff for the past few days. Any requests?"

"I don't want food," states (Y/N).

"Pff," laughs Zsasz as he pulls off the curb and onto busy Gotham streets, "of course you do. C'mon, I'm buying, so knock yourself out. Whatever you want."

Her blood boils. She stares dead ahead at the car in front of them, and (Y/N) forces her words out through her teeth. "I don't. Want. Anything. Just take me to Falcone so I can tell him what he wants to know, then I never have to see you again."

"Oh, (Y/N), I'm hurt." He dramatically clutches a hand over his heart.

"Join the club, Zsasz. That's why I want to get this bullshit over with so I can go _ home _ and  _ rest _ because  _ I was shot _ ." 

"I just wanted to buy a pretty lady some lunch. Is that a crime now?" he asks, and (Y/N) watches his face pull into an exaggerated pout in her peripheral vision.

She ignores the compliment, if you could even call it that. "It is when you kidnap her first."

"I'm shy?" Zsasz offers lightly. 

"You're irritating, is what you are," (Y/N) mutters, resting her temple against the window. They're passing through a junkie neighborhood, which she knows because a few crooks she arrested once lived around here. No chance for (Y/N) to signal for help. Not that she had the hands for it anyway.

Despite her protests, Zsasz pulls into a fast food parlor's drive-through. There are two bagged burgers in the car by the time they're back on the road. 

Zsasz drops one in (Y/N)'s lap.

"I said no, Zsasz," says (Y/N), practically glaring a hole through the burger's greasy paper bag.

"Yeah, I don't care. Your mouth and your stomach are telling two different stories," Zsasz replies, steering with one hand and using the other to prod (Y/N) in the gut. Her stomach, the traitor it is, growls. 

"Look, even if I wanted it," says (Y/N), "and that's a big  _ if _ , I'm not so talented I can eat without my hands."

Zsasz pauses right before he can take a bite of his burger. "If I cut you free," he starts slowly, "do you solemnly swear you won't try anything?"

"...Sure."

"Eh, I dunno. Doesn't sound like a heartfelt promise to me, (Y/N). Try again with some sincerity this time."  _ God, _ he's good at getting under her skin.

She rolls her head back against the headrest, exhaling a groan. "I promise!"

"See this?" He pops the glove compartment. Nestled inside is a handgun, a Glock. "You try anything and I'll be forced to shoot you. I don't wanna, because I feel we've really bonded," Zsasz knees the compartment shut, "on this trip. Though it could be poetic, now that I think about it. Three  _ is  _ a set, after all."

"I'm done running, Zsasz. Just get these things off me," (Y/N) tells him, forcing herself to look him in the eye. 

He seems to consider her words before tucking his burger back in its bag, retrieves a switchblade from his jacket, and flips the knife up with a flick of his wrist. "C'mere, little detective."

Even with the promise of untied hands, (Y/N) hesitates in turning her back on Victor Zsasz. Especially since he's armed. Regardless, she ends up twisting enough in her seat that Zsasz can take her wrists and slit the zip-tie restraint with one clean cut. (Y/N) murmurs her thanks, settling back in the car seat. No attempt is made by her to grab the burger. 

Then Zsasz pulls the car over to the side of the road, putting it in park. He clears his throat, prompting (Y/N) to snap her attention up. 

"What?" she asks.

"We're not moving until you start eating the burger I've so generously bought you," says Zsasz with a form of exaggerated playfulness, "and we're definitely not going to Don Falcone's until you've finished the whole thing. We clear?"

(Y/N) throws a glance at the discarded burger bag and shrugs. "Starvation is just a small price to pay, I guess."

"We  _ aren't _ clear, then. Do I really need to hold a gun to your head every time I want you to do something?!" 

"Well, I am your hostage," says (Y/N) breezily. "What's wrong, Zsasz? Thought you liked it when they fought back."

Zsasz practically glares a hole into the windshield, his knuckles going even whiter as his grip visibly tightens on the wheel. And (Y/N) can’t help but take pleasure in the fact that she is getting under his skin. He grits his teeth behind a strained expression. "We had a  _ deal _ . I free your hands, you eat the food. And you call yourself an honest cop. Shame on you, little detective."

His voice is bordering on whining at this point, and (Y/N)'s feeling cocky.

"Oh, no, no, no," tuts (Y/N), shaking her head and shifting her arms to cross them over her chest. "You said you'd free my hands if I promised not to try and escape. I haven't tried anything. I kept the deal just fine. You're the one asking for extra."

" _ No,  _ you're just doing this to tick me off."

"I mean, that too."

" _ Ughh _ ," groans Zsasz, exaggerated, "why are you being so difficult?!" He gives an empty chuckle. "All jokes aside, all I'm doing is my job."

"And you and your boss are getting in the way of mine, so I'll return the favor. Fair is fair,  _ don't you think?" _ says (Y/N), parroting his words back in his face. Zsasz smiles a false smile. 

"Oh, I see what you did there," Zsasz chuckles without humor, his expression very much for dramatic purposes. "No wonder you made detective so quickly. How long exactly did it take you again? Just over one year?"

(Y/N) felt as if she'd been slapped. How the hell did he know that?

The shock must've been obvious on her face, because Zsasz smirks, triumphant. "I may or may not have stolen the personal files of one (Y/F/N). For research purposes only, of course."

"You son of a-" spits out (Y/N), snapping upright in her seat, fists clenched.

"Ah, ah, ah!" Then Zsasz pulls his gun on her, pressing the muzzle firmly to her temple. "None of that, please. Are we ready to cooperate now?"

"When this is all over," says (Y/N) slowly, magically managing to keep her cool despite the loaded gun slotted next to her skull, "I'm going to dedicate my immediate future to destroying yours."

"Your threats are just as cute as you are, little detective," says Zsasz, his tone flirty.

She can literally feel her anger rise up into her chest with that last comment. This is the worst case of punch-this-dipshit's-face-off she's ever recalled having by far. And she’s come to face some real dickheads in her time with the GCPD. Zsasz again seems to notice the burning fury.

"Sweet Mother Mary, little detective, I'm just trying to be an accommodating host to you."

"You're my  _ kidnapper _ , Zsasz."

"Details, details. What if I ask nicely?"

"Get that gun away from me," says (Y/N), "and I'll consider… complying."

Zsasz smiles brightly at her, withdrawing his weapon and tucking it into one of the holsters. (Y/N) releases a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Moments later, Zsasz pulls back onto the road and they're driving through Gotham's twisting streets again. The trip is silent, to (Y/N)'s racing heart's relief.

And in the end, (Y/N) does eat the burger.


	4. Introductions

"Welcome to the boss's humble abode. If you'll come with me, milady?" Zsasz opens the passenger door for her, offering his hand out in mocking of some fancy butler. 

(Y/N) ignores his flamboyance and steps out. "You've made it clear I don't have a choice."

Still, it is a nice house. Dark and dreary with a certain coldness to it, because this is Gotham, but impressive in terms of its presentation. Like a more sullen version of Wayne Manor, from what she could recall from her three visits there. Except that a kindly little boy and his butler weren't behind those doors. It made (Y/N) feel small. It made (Y/N)'s heart race knowing exactly who lived here.

(Y/N) approaches Carmine Falcone's home, crossing the large stretching space driveway with Zsasz right behind her. Too close for comfort, but she knew that was his underlying goal. The creep. She crosses her arms tight over her chest, an attempt to give herself some kind of reassurance. It didn't work. 

Zsasz knocks a little rhythmic number on the door, which almost immediately swings open. 

Her mouth goes dry, her tongue feeling like a useless slab of meat, as she braves the first step inside.

Then Zsasz's hand finds itself on the small of her back. She jerks violently, her heart launching into her throat as heat rises in her face.

"What the  _ fuck _ -?!" snaps (Y/N), pushing past the flusteredness to slap his arm away.

He cleanly steps a foot or two away and makes a surrendering gesture, eyes wide with exaggerated surprise. But a half smile plays on his lips. "Just trying to help, I swear, totally professional!"

"Don't fucking touch me, Zsasz."

"Would you believe me if I said it was an accident?"

"No!"

Zsasz simply shrugs. "Fair enough. But you can't blame me for wanting to shoot my shot, ya know?"

"With your  _ hostage? _ " 

"My very,  _ very  _ cute hostage," says Zsasz resolutely.

(Y/N) averts her gaze and groans, rubbing a hand down her face. "I just want to get this over with." She meets Zsasz's eyes again. "Where's Falcone?"

"Right this way," and Zsasz takes (Y/N) by the good forearm, before she can't react or protest, and leads/drags her down the hallway to their left. She tries to dig her heels in, tries slowing their rapidly quickening pace, but to no avail. His grip is iron-strong. Zsasz stops them in front of an expensive looking door.

Zsasz raps that same melodic knock on this door. "Boss? It's me."

"Come in, Victor."

That's Carmine Falcone's voice, no doubt about it. (Y/N)'s body seizes. The weight of reality hits her like a brick. She's about to come face to face with one of Gotham's powerhouses - if not the most powerful and influential of all. 

The door gives way, and an elaborate office is revealed to be on the other side. It gives off a certain vibe that (Y/N) couldn't quite explain. Uncomfortable is too soft of a word. Unsettling might be a more fitting option.

The old Don is sitting in an armchair, as perfectly prim and proper and intimidating as rumours say. There's a book open in his hands. 

"Sir, this is (Y/F/N)," says Zsasz. Subtly, he nudges (Y/N) forward a step. Her tongue is too much of a dry weight to object. "The cop."

The Don closes his book, places it on the nearby table. Grace and power in his every move, (Y/N) can understand why he’s in charge. Falcone folds his hands on one knee."Of course. Although you are late, I was expecting you. Take a seat, detective."

"I'm good standing, actually." It isn't much, but a part of (Y/N) believes that every act of defiance means something. 

It doesn't matter, though. Zsasz plants a firm hand on (Y/N)'s shoulder - her injured one this time - and forces her down into the armchair opposite Falcone. His hand stays there; a threat.

The Don smiles at her. It's an insincere, tight-lipped thing. 

"I hear you're good, detective, both at your job and in general. One of the few straight officers left in this city, I might think," says Falcone flippantly. "You won't be paid off. It is said every man has a price... but you aren’t a man, are you?"

“Last time I checked, but I don’t see what my gender has to do with this.” (Y/N) has to physically fight off a scowl. The  _ audacity _ of this man- "Look, I didn't join the department for its paycheque. It's the only option I could find for people like me to make a difference on crime."

"And yet, you're aware of just how many of your coworkers are bribed to look the other way?" asks Falcone.

Well, she certainly now. But (Y/N) has had her own suspicions since her first day. Files vanishing into thin air, ignored records, 'misplaced' evidence, crooks with five too many warnings. Patterns, so many patterns to take examples from. There was no point in trying to deny it; the GCPD was just as - perhaps even more - corrupted as City Hall. Some cops were even worse than the people they arrested. 

She's embarrassed for them, embarrassed for this shoddy excuse of a law system, but (Y/N) knows where she stands among it all. She knows where she stands on what's right and what's wrong. 

"It doesn't change anything," says (Y/N), confident in their sincerity. "They made their choices, I made mine."

And Falcone seems to consider these words for a moment, his gaze on her the entire time. "Victor speaks highly of you, detective. In the time he has been tasked with watching you, he has made comparisons with that of James Gordon."

_ Watching me-? _

"I admire Gordon. He's a good man." That's the fucking understatement of the year. Jim is easily the most respectable person in the GCPD, he's what made (Y/N) believe Gotham could be saved. He might even be the reason she is who she is. 

"That he is," says Falcone with a light chuckle. "I know him, and I know his ideals. With that confirmed, I can assume you care about this city?"

(Y/N) bites the inside of her cheek. "Of course I do."

"And why is that?"

"I've lived here since forever. Grew up here. Gotham is my home."

"As it is mine," says Falcone. He sounds genuine and calm, in control. "Then we have that in common, don’t we, detective? We are both willing to do whatever it takes to make this city a better place. Where children can play in the streets again."

Hot anger spears her in the gut at those words. "With all due respect,  _ Don _ Falcone, don't rope me in with you. I became a cop, you became a mob boss."

"You see the world in black and white. Right and wrong, heroes and villains. Living in Gotham should've taught you better, detective," says Falcone. He's disturbingly calm. She hates it. Zsasz's grip on her shoulder seems to burn. "Life, especially Gotham, is a grey area. The right way is not always the clean-cut way. I assure you, Gotham would be far worse off if I weren't in charge. I love the city and the innocents living in it, while others only care about what power they can have and how they can abuse it. I protect the city you love."

"You've been running Gotham for over twenty years, Falcone. It drips with corruption, crime, and death. Maybe it's time for a change in ownership because frankly,  _ sir,  _ you suck at your job."

Falcone doesn't say anything, so (Y/N) finishes her piece with gritted teeth. 

"I know why I'm here. It's because I'm damn good at what I do, and now it's biting me in the ass. Whatever." Real heat leaks into her words. "Nine times out of ten, my work does real good. Puts dangerous people in prison. You, on the other hand, get those very same people out. So," says (Y/N), snapping, "why don't we get straight to the part where you threaten me for what you want?"

Zsasz's hand squeezes her shoulder blade and pulls her flush against the back of the armchair. Not once does (Y/N) break eye contact with Falcone. Falcone holds up his hand, and Zsasz stops. 

"(Y/N)- May I call you (Y/N)?" It sounds like it could be a question, a request, but even a deaf man could tell otherwise.

"Call me what you want."

"Perfect." Falcone pours himself another glass of scotch. "(Y/N), this isn't something you can be on the fence about. The way I see it, you have two options. Whichever you pick will determine you as an ally to my family, or an enemy. It's entirely up to your choice, I won't threaten you for it." 

"Sounds like a threat to me," mumbles (Y/N) under her breath. She didn't want to be an ally  _ or  _ an enemy to the Falcone Family. Which was worse? 

"I'm afraid time is of the essence, detective," says Falcone. 

She can feel Zsasz watching her.

"You're not going to like what I have to say," says (Y/N), her voice dwindling in volume. Confidence is bleeding out of her like a, well, gunshot wound.

"Then decide for yourself right now, (Y/N). From what you know about Fish Mooney and her way of ruling, and what now you know about me," Falcone takes a neat sip of his drink, "who would you prefer to run the Falcone Crime Family? To run Gotham?"

"I…"  _ You _ , she thinks regrettably. Fish is so, so much more underhanded than Falcone. She is selfish, brutal, and intelligent in the worst of ways. So instead, (Y/N) says, "Do you know someone named Liza?"

Something seems to shift behind Falcone's composure. "I do."

"She means a lot to you, doesn't she?"

"She does," Falcone replies.

"And she was recently kidnapped?" asks (Y/N).

"Yes," says Falcone, cold. His face seems to stricken like he's angry. But it's not directed at her. "By Fish Mooney. My Liza is being held as a bargaining chip."

_ His Liza _ . God, this is big. 

"Fish said she's willing to give her back if the Don leaves Gotham for good," Zsasz adds offhandedly. 

So Falcone already knows that Fish snatched Liza. That makes sense. All a part of Fish's plan. (Y/N)'s intel is correct, it just has to be. But as of now, (Y/N) isn't sure if she wants that anymore. Still, she'll play it safe. Being the one to tell such a powerful man that his beloved girlfriend is a two-faced snake may put (Y/N) six feet under. 

"Then why go to all the trouble to grab me if you already know what I was going to say?" Playing dumb. Not her favourite tactic, but currently her best.

"Because you know more than that, don't you, detective?" Again, not a question. "My sources within your department said no one outside of Fish's social circle knows more about this than you."

(Y/N) scapes up enough courage to carry out her 'dumb little girl' act. "And what if I told you your sources are wrong?"

"You'd be lying," drawls Zsasz from over her shoulder. 

"Is this your way of saying you won't cooperate? I don't have time to waste, detective."

"Okay, fine. Fine. Just don't-" Her voice wavers, but she swallows it down "-don't shoot the messenger, okay? I'm just giving what I know." (Y/N) pinches the bridge of her nose, refusing to make eye contact with either of the men. "Liza's a spy."

"...Pardon?"

"Liza isn't yours. She never was," (Y/N) tells him, dragging her gaze up to meet Falcone's.

The words, the confessions, fall from her mouth after that. Easily, naturally. 

"Fish planted Liza to gain your trust and infiltrate your inner circle. Perfectly placed, with the right appearance and personality she knew would draw you in. Liza would worm herself so deep into your heart you'd give up everything to save her when Fish eventually 'kidnaps' her. You permanently leave Gotham, Fish gets control over your family without getting her hands dirty."

"And do you have anything to back up your word, detective?" asks Falcone.

"Of course not," (Y/N) replies, smooth despite her jackrabbiting heart. "The GCPD didn't deem this stuff useful, so I didn't waste time getting proof. But answer me this: don't you think Liza is a little too good to be true? A little too much like your  _ mother _ , Mister Falcone?"

And Falcone flinches at that. 

"Sir-" tries Zsasz, rounding (Y/N)'s chair to stand behind Falcone. His hands settle on the Don's shoulders.

"Detective," says Falcone, both cutting off Zsasz and sending a new wave of nerves through her. Her heart is beating so loud she's sure Falcone can hear it, "I believe you are one of two things. Either you are indeed very good at what you do and your reputation proceeds you, or-" Falcone takes yet another shaky sip of his glass "-or you are an exceptional liar."

(Y/N) blinks. "Are you serious?! What do you think I gain from lying about this?"

"Perhaps you believe doing this will buy you time, or you simply wish to spite me. I don't pretend to understand you, (Y/N). But for now, you will accompany me to this meeting for the exchange of Liza."

" _ What _ ?!"

"There is no debate. If Liza is indeed a spy as you say, then you have nothing to fear, do you? We part ways as soon as I return. But if she isn't…" Falcone trails off. The implication, the  _ threat _ , is there.

Victor's hands still for a brief moment on Falcone's shoulders and his mouth parts as if to say something. He seems to rethink it and resumes his movement, avoiding (Y/N)'s gaze.

(Y/N) releases a shaky breath and swallows the thick, goopy bile rising in her throat.

She's going to be sick.


End file.
